You will still be working in a small Midwest town, when you overhear my name in the grocery store. Youâll pause, wait around for someone to say it again, and when you hear nothing youâll insist you heard nothing in the first place. Hm, maybe your mindâs going.Â
Youâll never be who you were when we were friends. Itâs fucked to say, I know, but those years are behind us both and neither of us are the same. Not in the optimistic âWe all grow better with ageâ kind of way. Iâm bitter. Iâve fed you volcanic ash. Cry, and I wonât be there to comfort you as it scars your lungs, turns you into leather from the inside out. The works Iâd written you into, the pictures saved to my camera roll, are fringed with the same burning metals, each memory fuel for my eruptions. Your reputation is irreversible, I may have loved you, but I only ever needed you. Now that I donât, youâll be the one left in the smoke.Â
